


chaos (in) theory

by epsiloneridani



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21684655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: Sam survived, Fred ran his mouth, ONI’s playing shadowgames, and Veta’s two seconds from tearing the whole place down.It must be Tuesday.
Relationships: Frederic-104/Veta Lopis
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	chaos (in) theory

It smells the same.

Sam steps off the shuttle’s ramp and tucks his helmet under an arm. The bay seethes sweat and steel, just as much a training arena as a landing zone. If he shuts his eyes he could be back on Reach, scrambling onto a Pelican behind John and Kelly and Linda and Fred with his heart pounding in his chest.

If he shuts his eyes, it’s like he never died.

No one comes to greet him so he waits a minute, two, and then wanders down the bay’s central corridor. A hush falls over the crew. His skin crawls. He wants to say _I’m just another Spartan,_ wants to say _I’m just like you_ , but he’s seen enough Fours on his journey here that he knows it won’t make a difference what he tells them.

Sam pulls his helmet on.

The hallway is only slightly more abandoned; a ship the size of _Infinity_ is never quiet for long. The people out here stare just as much as the others in the bay. Maybe he should have stayed. Maybe someone was late. Maybe he should stride back inside and wait.

No. Too many eyes. Too many stares and _You’re A Hero_ smiles.

_I’m just like you. I’m just like you. Stop staring at me. I’m just like you._

He walks faster without meaning to, picking up speed until he’s taking long strides. _Infinity’s_ map pulses behind his eyes, blinding light. The arboretum should be quiet, a solace in the storm. Middle of the day. Heavy crew. All on duty.

He bursts through the atrium’s doors and stops short before his brain fully registers why. Even then, something - _someone_ \- bounces off him and tumbles backwards onto the path, a mess of flying hair and flailing limbs.

She’s so small, she’s not moving, and for one heartstopping beat Sam’s afraid he wasn’t fast enough. Spartans have so much strength, especially in MJOLNIR, and what might be a playful bump to them is a host of cracked ribs or a fractured spine to an unaugmented human and she’s so still, maybe she’s not breathing, maybe-

“What the _hell?_ ”

Sam’s by her side in a flash, easing a hand behind her back to lift her up. Her vitals whip across his HUD, healthy, normal, and he’s just breathing a sigh of relief when he realizes she’s glaring at him, all stiff shoulders and scowling challenge.

He scrambles back - Kelly’d laugh at him, a Spartan in full kit clumsily fumbling for a few feet of space, he misses that laugh, hates the silence where it should be - and the woman tilts her head at him. There’s a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, a whisper of a ghost, then gone.

“I’m Sam,” Sam blurts, struggling to tug his helmet over his head. He almost drops it. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says and he moves to stand but she waves him sit; after the close call he’s not inclined to make any sudden movements. She hesitates a beat; her eyes flick from his face to the helmet he’s cradling, and then back. “I’m Veta. I think I’ve heard about you.”

“I doubt it,” he says curtly. His chest aches suddenly and he remembers that Blue Team was on this ship not even a week ago. He doesn’t even know if they know he’s alive. Who would’ve told them? Not ONI, certainly. And to everyone else he’s just another legend in a sea of the same. Spartan-II. Armor and awe.

No one knows the difference. No one cares.

“I heard about you. From Fred,” she says. She flushes a pale pink, Sam wonders why, but there’s no time to ask; she pushes on. “Fred-104. I’m a - friend. He talks about - he told me about you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Veta says. Her eyes flash sudden fury, burning fire. Friend of Fred or not, it’s strange to see that kind of reaction from a non-Spartan. For a long moment he can’t find his voice.

“I’m not,” Sam manages.

“Obviously.”

“How?”

“How are you alive?”

“No,” Sam says impatiently. He knows that answer. “How do _you_ know who I am? I haven’t seen Fred in over twenty years.”

She looks pointedly at his helmet and he follows her gaze to the eagle and star he carved into the side. The insignia is too small to be noticed at a distance but he sees it every time he pulls his helmet on, brushes his fingers over it every time he engages the seal.

It’s the one small comfort he allows himself.

“Blue team,” Veta says. “Fred has it on his pauldron. Why would you wear it if it didn’t belong?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Maybe not officially,” Veta says, “but it did once. Blue Team’s renowned enough that former members don’t even wear the insignia as a memento.”

“It’s not regulation,” Sam says. He’s tracing the carving idly, he realizes, and closes his fingers into a tight fist.

“No,” Veta says, “it’s about more than regulations. It’s about respect and being worthy. Most Spartans wouldn’t wear it. You do.”

Sam shrugs, casting his eyes to the scenery behind her, trails and trees and anything but the boring intensity he can feel drilling into his temple.

“They don’t know you’re alive,” she says at last, quieter than he expected. It catches his attention. There’s reserve in her open question, subtle seeking she masks as casual conversation.

“I can’t tell them without proper clearance,” Sam says. It’s futile: he’s done it, many times. The answer was straightforward - _We need you to be completely covert_ , a code he quickly translated to mean _attachments detract from your efficiency_.

But they were at war.

There’s another flash of that fire and Veta clenches her jaw and Sam gets the distinct sense that this woman is barely constrained by something as trivial as _clearance_. “You can’t tell them,” Sam says desperately.

Veta takes a measured breath. “Why not?”

“Clearance,” Sam says again. It tastes bitter. He can still hear Osman’s words, the last time he asked her - _Can I see them?_

_Why? It’s been thirty years, Sam. You wouldn’t even know them any more._

“But I know now,” Veta says. “I’m not bound by _your_ orders.”

“You can’t tell them.”

“Why?”

“You’re not _supposed_ to know,” Sam says. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

“You didn’t tell me. I put it together given the information available to me.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice and Sam wonders what she was before she was _here_. Detective. Profiler.

“You can’t tell them.”

“Because of your orders or because you don’t want them to know?”

“I have a different role now,” Sam says.

“Is that you or Osman talking?” Veta asks. She’s sitting cross-legged, drumming her fingers on her thigh, and Sam’s reminded how ridiculous he must look perched across from her in full armor. Reminded there’s no Kelly to laugh or John to tease or Fred to sigh or Linda to smirk. Reminded they haven’t been there for a very long time.

Reminded he doesn’t even know them any more.

“Please,” Sam says, “don’t tell them.”

Veta blinks at him and for a second he think’s she’ll keep fighting. Then her eyes shutter and her face smooths. “All right,” she says. “I won’t.”

It doesn’t make it any easier to breathe.  
—–


End file.
